what u doin? me? killin', you know, just killin'. . .

I woke up this morning thinking, "Damn, I'm in the mood to fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."

We stretched a bit, soon enough sat up, drowsily creeping toward our first cups of coffee. I told M, " The fucking government should give us psycho killer's a license, okay? To fucking kill those assholes protesting abortions."

By this time -- that being mere seconds since the little death with dreams dropped away, as I opened passed into another pointless day, M., the weekend pot head, was handing me a bowl and simply ignoring what I had said, like she tends to do when the conversation gets too weird for her. Once, when my mom was talking about all the people she tortured, M. broke into an anecdote and tried to get everyone to start talking about my paintings. My family just quieted for a moment as they all kind of looked at M. with what used to be called the evil eye... I had to cock my shotgun at that point, let that 'cha-ching' tell my family that I was keeping thier asses covered when they are near me and mine. I also hide a few claymores under thier chairs, all wired to an apparatus I have hidden under my shirt sleeve, on my forearm. These are the same babies I use in the front yard, where some say that they have led to the mysterious disappearences of hundreds of door to door salespeople? Now, me, I don't know if this is true, or not... in fact, the whole not incriminating myself thing is something I really need to keep in mind while I am typoing away in here.

I was wearing full body armor during this family gathering, and still wishing like hell, every time by bum leg hurts -- which is every time I take a step, that I had been all armored out during the New Years Mayhem, as the papers called Dad's party. I guess we just drove around in a limo shooting people who were wearing furs... I mean, we may kill, my family, but we have fucking high standards of what is civilized, okay? I mean, we do not kill the working man, or steal from him to support our killing ways, if possible, but there is always going to be some collaterol damage, like civilians getting deep, deadly if not cleaned, ankle scratches from vicious, highly trained hamster troops --- who probably go just plain out blood crazy and don't care whose ankle they assault in battle.

Over all, you could say we are on the side of the underdog, alright? My mom was in the union, where our genetic predisposition toward just cutting down our enemies came in handy, as you can imagine. We actually used to occasionally have to keep a dead body in our freezer, just for a day or so, until a Fixer came in with acid and turned her into what he said was an enviornmentally safe liquid that he pouered into a sewer hole... making me think, I will drink this man into my body sometime....




There are too many people on the planet. Over population could be the death of us all. Something will have to be done. In the case of deer, which are not nearly as ecologically upheaving as humans, there is a license, a season, and lots of laws against breaking these taboos. Why not give psycho killer's a licenses? We could kill all rapists and murderers hands down no exceptions and no apologies accepted -- because if these bastards want to be cold, let's let society be cold right back. Don't let them live. You rape a woman and you are a major freak who needs to die. You molest a kid and you die slow. They could just let loose all the damn prisoners in for these offenses, out into some damn woods, and get this over crowding issue finally dealt with.

Human meat would come into vogue; the skins could be fashionable boots and other fashion excessories. I mean, human testicles could be ground up and sold to chinese peasents as cures for just whatever the hell we decide. Ignorant peasents are easy to dupe. The skin will be make shirts, ottomans's and.... oh, I don't know some kind skimpy skirts... I don't have this quite all worked out yet, but I do have about a dozen notepads filled with tiny letters that constitute my notes on the subject of what will be done with the skin. I for one think burning or burying corpses is a waste of meat, not to mention the skin, which could be used to make inexpensive clothing items and fashion accessories.

T be continued after I hunt down some bums and blast them right off the welfare line and sate my need.


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SONGS FOR THE DEAD

Fuck you
one and all
I will die
before I let you
chain me to your ignorance

never meant to make you do
any more than think
to unbridle
your ideas from emotions
debating
out a consensus
is not for you
i know
not for you

been to swamps
and mountaintops
ran with the madmen
and theives
seen the saints and sinners
the women who please
never found nothing
not one damn thing
in all that mystic wandering

pledged alliegance to women
states of mind

told myself I was different
then that I was just acting in kind

screams of the anguished
fill my mind

confusion my patron saint
no absolutes reign in this state
I tend to stay
in the statistical middle
of opinions and powers
I go along and at worst look dour
no one cares to hear my whines
no one will do what I say

They won't stay if you cry
They will banish you
from their life
and thoughts
replace your memory
with a monster's mask
someone easy not to miss

sorry to run so far ahead
never meant to lose touch

I'll live as I please
dance sometimes
sometimes seeth
slouching through the room
insolent and cold
inhuman
I'll take your tears
and fears
and all that is dear
toss that shit
into a deep mud puddle
and just walk away

fuck you and your values
you're too dense
to see under the surface
a tiny bit
of an inch

I'm not going to be held prisoner
chained
to your dead head

will not be held back
by you
no more

I will smile cold and dispassionate
slice open your jugular
and feel your bloods' warmth
splash on my face
drive nails into your
hands and feet
cut your brow
with a crown of thorns

whatever . . . it . . . takes . . .



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franklins long long life

Franklin looked over the knick knacks of his life and noticed himself staring out. He sat back in the chair, pushed away from his desk, looked at the pictures neatly laid out before him, the grey stapler, the computer monitor, the chipped cup filled with pens and pencils; and realized, in a manner deep and profound to him, that these disposable trinkets were really the sum of him; the numbers in the equation of his life.

He looked up on the beige walls of his cubicle, at the plaques that he had received over the years commending him for making the various sales quota's, and such; the largest of them was for never using a sick day, for which he also received a nice bonus. Back then he thought that he could drag himself to work with the plague if he had to. Just then, however, nothing in his life motivated him to go on.

His attendence record was destroyed after he ignored searing pains in his side and his apendix burst. His lawyer had wanted him to sue, and somehow the company caught wind of that and cancelled all bonuses based on attendence as a pre-emptive measure, making him quite unpopular with some of the long term enployees who used to go on their vacations each year on the bonus. Most of them had to quit vacationing, he included. Not that he would have done anymore than get drunk on cheap beer and watch movies.

After his apendix exploded in his gut, he caught numerous infections, and ended up having to lay in the hospital for almost two months. Laying in the metallic grey and white room in his paper pj.'s with nothing around him to remind him of who he was, he had felt the same sense of loss that was sweeping through him that morning and convincing him that his life was falling apart. Before the hospital, eight o clock meant this job, nine that one... there was a purpose to his existence, even if it was just making him money he did not even neccessarily need anymore. With no office to go to, he became that sterile, lysol scented room... a creature that he did not recognize. A thing that ate and spewed, ate and spewed.


Whittlecuts comes by his cubicle, nods politely. Frank nod's back. In the office, everyone knew their place, he liked to say. Middle mangement made him basically the boss of most people in the company. He would never be made the head of the company, or ever really listened to in the important meetings. He knew this, and was just grateful he had been able to go as far as he did. He had no faith in himself at all. Indeed, he had no self to have faith in. He was merely a sum of what the corporation wanted him to be; from them he got his hair cut, car, manner of speaking, choices of restaurants, where he vacationed --he had become just like the herd of adults that he had despised when he was a kid.

Now looking back, he can see that no one, not one kid he knew., grew up to be the usual answers from kids about what they want to be when they grow up. No firemen, astronauts, presidents or even nurses.

The town he lived in was where he was born and he knew everyone there. Just four hundred people in a small space out in the flat fields of Ohio with huge homes built by McKill's Company, and they all looked the same. Brick red. Period. Every house in the town. The front windows and porches were alleged to be where the houses would all be different. At least that was what the brochure said. They were being careful to sell lots where the buyers could not see anything similar to their house; and no one noticed at first, not with all the tree's that had been planted, as well as the privacy walls up around people's lawns. The price was so good that they sold out in a few days, mostly to realitors. Some had already turned over their properties and gotten rich.

He seems to hear David Byrne singing in his ear, "This is not my beautiful house." It had seemed that way since his wife, Phyllis, passed away. He had come into work just a week after the funeral. That was all his vacation days. They would have gave him a leave of absence, but he had no idea what to do with himself other than cry. With her gone, who he was seems more in question than ever. He liked the person he was with her. She had been enough for him. He was on the sunset side of middle aged, balding and grey and bespeckled... without youthful beauty, he felt barely visible to others. They treated him like an old man. He was more than that. He was once young like the kids in the cubicles on the floor below his, and now was older --having that kind of life knowledge should have made the twenties something kids curious. No. He didn't eat alone because there was always someone else there like him, alone and just eating.


He reaches down and opens the left hand drawer of his desk. His skin looks thin on his aged hands; it is almost transparent, shows his blue veins pulsing underneath. He takes out a hand held recorder and a black .38. He writes on sticky note -- MY LAST WORDS, puts it on the recorder and starts talking. "Hi. Sorry to leave this mess in the office. I had no alternative. I did not want to make my house unlivible for my daughter. My will, made out a few years ago, gives her the house. I am sorry for what I am doing. I left this body long before this, in some ways. Became inhuman in small ways. Stopped seeing the person pouring me coffee in restaurants. Learned to ignore any and all distractions from my purposes in life -- including my children. I gambled that religion and money would see me through anything, but now I know there are no saviors and you can't buy love. That my pain seems endless. I no longer will roll the stone up the mountain, or let any birds eat my organs. That's all folks."

He puts the gun on his temple. Feels the cold circle of the barrel on his warm skin, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees the bullet hitting the side of his head, smashing through his skull... His head hurts like hell and he is still alive...

He passes out.


Franklin woke up in a hospital where he stayed until he was stable enough to ship to the psychiatric ward. His doctor prescribed Xanax and Prozac. He stayed in the hospital six months, became physically disabled and qualified for two pensions.


The rest of his life he spent seeking out books he loved, vistas in nature, great art... He was his surroundings, that they had said was true in the hospital. For the next thirty years, Frank became something of an eccentric, bought an RV and traveled all year long. He met another woman eventually, and felt grateful to be alive... and almost grateful that he shot himself. He never forgot the day in his cubicle noticing what he had become, and the thought kept him moving from the Niagra falls to the Everglades to the Smoky Mountains and the Pacific ocean. . . and yes, for once in my tales, he lived happily ever after.





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FALLING STARS

SYLVIA PLATH

EARNEST HEMINGWAY

HUNTER S THOMPSON



suicide renders years of therapy impotent
they go somewhere far from being a star
become desperate enough to think
the murky unknown has to be better


stand in wonder when the rich and famous
let their hands grow traitorous
a life you can only dream of
finds a desperate murk to lose themselves in
worth by proximity to god
just ain't working for them
they must feel there's no worth
in the persistent pains of an average day ?

they shine like beacons spewing blackness into the daylight


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TYEST

TESTETRE

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